Journey into the darkness of Delhi (3) - The end of the story

(Continues from the previous posts)

Rule number one when you travel: fidarsi é bene, ma non fidarsi é meglio (to trust is good, not to trust is better).

Remember when I paid my driver and dismissed him before jumping on the policeman’s vespa? Well, consistent with rule n. one, I took that opportunity to quickly remove most of the cash from my wallet and keep in it only the change that the driver gave me back. So, when the two cops asked me how much I had in my wallet, I almost apologized showing them that, unfortunately, I didn’t have much.

When I finally left the scene, I drew a deep sigh of relief: “God willing, this night is really over…”

End of the story? Well, not completely…

A few days have passed, and still the annoyance for how that night concluded has gone away yet.

The annoyance for having suffered an abuse of power, a wrong. The annoyance for not having been able to say no, for not having been able to oppose to an abuse. For not having been able to be consistent with my principles and values.

And it little matters that, with hindsight, that has probably been the wisest decision I could take in that very moment, the best way I could handle that situation. That in the end I paid much less than if I had had to pay the fine…

In the deepest part of my heart I know I could have said no. And I didn’t. And this bothers me enormously…

Journey into the darkness of Delhi (2)

(Continues from the previous post)

In the middle of the night, with a tuk-tuk driver as only companion, on board of a rickety rickshaw, I began my journey into the darkness of Delhi - in search of my lost scooter.

And in fact, Delhi by night seems a totally different city. As much crowded and noisy during the day, as empty and quiet during the night - a ghost town: faint light from the street lamps, no one around but a few dogs. All is still, all is motionless. As in a dream...

And yet, every time we stopped at a crossroad looking for someone who could help us in finding the police station, a multitude of individuals emerged from the darkness. Dozens and dozens of skinny and half-naked men, from the garbage piled up on the sidewalks, from the flowerbeds of the roundabouts. Dozens and dozens, emerging from everywhere, as in a Romero’s movie...

These are the ‘PBPL’ of our reports and statistics: ‘people-below-the-poverty-line’, the poorest of the poor, individuals with no name, no age, no house, no rights or entitlements: nothing of nothing.

Deformed, ugly, stinky, and yet friendly and warm-hearted: they all took my case to their hearts when the tuk-tuk driver explained them the situation, and tried to be helpful as much as they could: spreading the word to the other tramps, offering to accompany us to the police station, simply being solidly behind. A gleam of human warmth in the middle of all that misery…

Following their directions, through a labyrinth of lanes and alleys, we reached three different police stations. Rather dreary places: shaky neon lights, stale smell, half-sleepy policemen in empty offices. Reluctantly, we were accompanied each time to the station's car deposit (more similar to wreck deposits than anything else) - each time to verify that my scooter was not there.

I had almost lost all my hopes, when at the forth police station we visited, the policeman on duty (a more zealous fellow than the ones we met before) asked me a few questions, made a few telephone calls, and finally told me to go with him.

Pervaded with a new hope, I paid and said good-bye to my trusty driver, and jumped on the Vespa of the policeman. In a few minutes we reached another deposit, where another cop was waiting for us. I hadn’t even crossed the gate of the deposit that I recognized my scooter parked there. I heaved a sigh of relief: “End of the nightmare” I thought.

We spent the following few minutes dealing with the usual paperwork: I showed them the documents of the scooter, they asked me the usual questions (name, address, what I was doing in India, etc.), etc., etc.

I had just finished pronouncing my deepest thanks and was ready to leave, when the two cops mumbled something. Before I understood they were saying “tip, tip”, one of the two asked me straightforwardly: “How much do you have in your wallet?”.

“Oh f…ck!” I thought, analyzing the situation. I was alone in a car deposit, at three in the night, with two armed cops who were asking me how much I had in my wallet. And I had just withdrawn cash that day…

“Oh f…ck!” I repeated to myself…

(I’m leaving tomorrow eve to Udaipur, Rajasthan, to join my mum for the week-end. I’ll be back on Sunday eve, and will conclude the story and tell how I dealt with the situation at my return. I am however curious to know what you would have done if you were in my shoes. Do let me know…)

Journey into the darkness of Delhi

“Is it safe to leave your scooter parked outside unattended?” asked me Garvey while we were saying good-bye to each other yesterday night. “Well, I’ll tell you in five minutes” I answered laughing, leaving the hotel.

If there was one thing I was quite confident about Delhi in fact was that it is a safe place. Never experienced or heard of any theft, robbery, etc. In short, never been worried of leaving my scooter unattended.

You can then imagine how I felt when I realized my scooter was not where I parked it anymore.

After having cursed Garvey (“Bird of ill omen!”), I started cursing myself: “Why didn’t I take a taxi tonight?”, “Why did I park it here?”, “Why me???”.

However, if there is something I recognize about myself is that I rarely panic. I noticed a few tramps who were sleeping on the sidewalk where I left my scooter. I approached them, I woke them up, and (gesticulating) I tried to ask them if they knew what happened to my scooter.

In an instant I was surrounded by a dozen of tramps who were confusedly speaking to me in an unknown language (Hindi? Urdu? Telugu???) while holding me by the arms, by the legs, by everything (!) - while other odd characters were appearing from nowhere and adding up to the small crowd. I was trying to politely wriggle out and sneak off, when someone in the crowd said “Police”.

“Police?”.

In short, what I guessed out of the conversation with this person (but please, do imagine the situation: trying to ask questions to someone that only speaks Hindi - if it was Hindi at all) was that the police removed my vehicle as it was illegally parked on the sidewalk.

I gave a sigh of relief. Even though I was literally astonished thinking that the police had the time to remove a scooter from an empty sidewalk in an empty neighborhood in the middle of the night (they really have nothing else to do!), at least I was relieved by the fact that my scooter seemed not to be stolen. However, immediately after I started wondering “How the hell can I find my scooter back in the middle of Delhi in the middle of the night???”.

With the help of my tramps we managed to find a rickshaw (indeed not an easy task as all the streets were empty as if the city had been abandoned). I jumped on it and - ordering the driver “Police-station, police-station” - I started what, in truth, has become a journey in the darkness of Delhi…

(Continues…)